


Don't Call Me Nymphadora

by zorilleerrant



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Nonbinary Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-26
Packaged: 2020-05-20 08:02:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19372573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zorilleerrant/pseuds/zorilleerrant
Summary: Tonks doesn't like her name, but names mean more than labels.





	Don't Call Me Nymphadora

The identity crisis comes long before any questioning of gender. Early on – and Tonks can’t even remember _having_ a gender that early on – when she looked like her mum or her da but not like both, and having to consciously decide which one if they were both in the room with her. (When they weren’t in the room, Tonks always knew who she wanted to look like that day, except sometimes she felt like looking like whoever else was in the room with her too, but only when they weren’t looking. And when _no one_ was in the room with her, Tonks could do whatever she wanted, looking wild and ridiculous with no one to tell her no.)

Because – and everyone guessed this, everyone told Tonks she was ridiculous and to stop borrowing trouble – if she looked like her mum she would _be_ like her mum, and if she looked like her da she would _be_ like her da, and well. Her mum was brave and quiet and sad sometimes, helped her do things she couldn’t and patient while she learned. Her da was cheerful and curious and lonely sometimes, listened to her when she had a problem and gave her advice on the little things that frustrated her. They loved her, they nurtured her, they gave her the things she needed even that other kids didn’t. Her da had no magic.

 _Tonks_ had magic. Everyone knew this from the moment she was born because the midwife commented on her color-changing newborn locks as soon as she crowned, and in any case accidental magic had never been less common for her than accidental _anything_ and Tonks fell down a lot, knocked things over a lot, turned a lot of things into balloons as a child. Sometimes she worried that if she took after her father too much her magic would realize she wasn’t meant to have it after all and leave. And Tonks might simply not look like anything at all, after that.

And anyway, people kept telling her about the Black look – the piercing Black Gaze and the strong Black Nose and the winning Black Smile – that she had and wasn’t she the spitting image of this that or the other, no one ever mentioned the Tonks ears or the Tonks laugh or the Tonks swaying gait she associated so heavily with her father. And she heard stories of her mother’s family and how they cast her out, heard her mother sigh in longing or other times say good riddance to them, she wanted nothing more to do with that lot. And listening, sometimes she wished she could be _just Tonks_ and not Black at all.

By the time she got to Hogwarts she’d gone through all the stages of grief on that one and embraced her bloodied heritage tatters and all, thrown it like a shawl across her shoulders. Spider silk, or just spiders. She’d started calling herself Nymphadora, and then she’d stopped again. And it wasn’t the _Nymph_ part either because she hated being called _Dora_ fullstop, it was the - _a_ that her father never had to deal with even being who he was in a society that required a wand to open most doors.

So she was back to _Tonks_ but it wasn’t the same Tonks at all. She played a game with herself. Every time she liked a name, she held it close to herself, whispered it in the mirror when she was alone, tried to imagine who she would be with that name, what she would look like. The girl in the mirror obliged, taking on long hair, or short, different colors, ones that matched her eyes or didn’t, eyes that were wide in innocence, surprise, narrowed in perpetual anger, in frustration because she couldn’t get the looks just right. She put on scars, put on acne, put on freckles and moles and portwine stains. Her lips were thin or full or smirking, bright or dark or wrapped around a sneer. When she was in public she was just Tonks and wore the latest request or the teacher’s visage; when she was alone she was Adam or Melody or Annabeth or Gabriel or Shane and she tried to look like herself.

The names changed as the looks did, but she couldn’t ever find the one that was her. One fight at the start of the year and just Tonks went back to meaning so many things, and she sat herself down and told her reflection, listen, _listen_. You take them for their looks, their names, their houses, their parents – look at _mum_ ’s parents and say mum ended up like them. She said, look like mum. And she did. She said, look like da, too, just a bit. Not too much, but halfway between. But a bit more like mum. And she did. _That_ she thought, was Nymphadora. Tonks didn’t know who _she_ was, but she could damn well make sure she knew who _Nymphadora_ was, and that was, well. Someone a lot like mum and a lot like da and not too much either way, but especially not too much like da. Wouldn’t do to spit in the face of magic.

That was Nymphadora, she thought. Very conscientious about magic. Very conscientious about feelings. And that was where she put her thoughts about the Old Ways, every time she felt like she _had_ to do them or something bad would happen, every worry that she wasn’t good enough to be a real witch. Everything her mum had said about how to do well in school, everything her da had warned her to watch out for. The insecurities about her body as she started to grow taller and smell strange and think other people smelled strange too. Everything the magazines told her about how much to care about clothes and her classmates told her to think about makeup, everything her teachers said about what a good student she was. And other things, too, that she thought she might like. Loves owls. Knowledgeable about carpentry. Graceful.

And that was Nymphadora sorted, Tonks thought. She didn’t have to _be_ her, but it was nice to be able to look at it and see what she would be like if she did. But she didn’t.

And then there was puberty. Because before when Tonks was a girl or a boy it didn’t matter at all, but now they looked _different_ and she thought maybe she ought to have one of each. (The fact that the boys she imagined herself to be were always _taller_ was her first clue that something was off, later, when she came back to it.) And so she made Theodore, which was a private joke to herself, because this one could be as much like her da as she wanted only he wasn’t really and as it turned out she hated that name just the same. But she kept it, because it was what her first completed work of art was _called_. He was tall and had floppy hair like her da, but brighter eyes, like she’d seen on the quidditch captain, a sort of purple and like he was always about to speak. And her mouth was like McGonagall, almost a frown but with a secret smile in it, like she knew the answer to everything but didn’t want to say just yet. And her muscles were a bit bigger because she thought that’s what kind of boy she’d like to be but that wasn’t quite right and her head looked too small on the body but they were still strong when she was done. But still the same sort of funny walk like her da did.

And that was where she put every nagging thought she’d ever had about losing her magic, about being inept at it, about scaring it away or harming it in some accident, about it being taken away for crimes against who knew what, about being expelled. And everything she’d read up on at night when she couldn’t sleep about how people learned to live without it, what jobs someone could have if they had to be careful about their spells, what balms could sooth the hurt on injured magic, where else one could go to school. (And the questions she’d asked her da, oh so carefully, because sometimes there was a pure joy in his eyes to share these little details of his life, and sometimes heartbreak.) And many many law books, but they didn’t answer any of her questions nearly so well.

And she put in the Boy Interests she wasn’t supposed to have, gave Theodore her love of quidditch and her aptitude for potions, her exceptional keenness for frogs and the occasional scrawling sheet of math. These were the times for her inappropriate humor and long books about very flat heroes doing grand magics for no explicable reason, thus gaining fame, fortune, and the girl. (This was _especially_ where Tonks put all her thoughts about Getting The Girl.) Every time someone called her too tall, or too broad, or too loud, every time someone reminded her to be ladylike, every jeer and prank she had to keep to herself _lest_ , these she gave to Theodore (Ted, Teddy, Theo?) and let herself be rid of them. (And, to round it out, that interest in botany she could never quite come by, and several Long Books she found impressive at that age, for his reading skill. And also he was very, very good at talking to girls. And kissing.) By herself (and, sadly, joking to herself), Tonks could be Theodore, and it was fine.

It was easier not to hate Nymphadora when she was also not hating Theodore, both of whom weren’t her, but who were enough her that she found it easier not to hate herself.

The first time she sat down alone in that room and asked herself what do _I_ want – these days, she was a variety of celebrities where people could see her, and alone, she wasn’t entirely sure she still existed – the creature she created wasn’t a witch (or a wizard) at all. Something ethereal, otherworldly, with points and angles every which way, ears curled almost in a filigree and at the tip like the wick of a candle not yet lit. The arms and legs had too many joints and not in quite the right direction, the eyes were the blank white of the full moon yet with a wicked gleam. The teeth were sharp, and many. She showed the creature many times, for games and plays and sometimes guide on a haunted tour later in life, but she never admitted she had named it. Somehow, the name she granted that first attempt at being herself felt more like her True Name than any other.

And she gave it all her wild and angry thoughts, the wish to burn things down and start anew, to unmake and unmake and unmake until she was free to make again. That creature held all her rages speakable and unspeakable, and vendettas against, by the time she graduated, the whole of the school. Tonks could let them go because the creature never would.

She never added any bits to round it out. It had instead an aching need filled with every wish Tonks ever had when she wasn’t good enough.

Soon after, she tried for something more human.

Someone who mimicked the unspeakable beauty of the creature, but in human form, almost entirely androgynous, hair a soft honeyed brown tied off at the nape, eyes a deeper more compelling version of the same. Skin the color of desert sand, but smooth, so smooth as if ground flat under it while she slept for eons. She called them Clarity and immediately revoked Nymphadora’s gracefulness to put it here. She gave them everything she loved about herself, the tone of her voice, the way her letters looked fancy when she drew extra little curls onto them. How much she knew about stars, and the law, and the cards that came with chocolate frogs. And more and more, every time she felt something beautiful in herself, she carefully tucked it away, to nurture in this form that wasn’t her but was finally _close_. Every time someone gave Tonks a compliment, and she could really, truly believe it was genuine, she put it there too.

And she did gain some Clarity from it, because they were the first of her forms she felt she was actually _risking_ something to let out in the world. And that the risk was worth it.

She wore them to Hogsmeade, took them for a spin down the long winding road, past trees they liked to pretend were admirers, and at her usual table for a pint. (Of butterbeer. But they pretended to be a little more grown up than they were, something Tonks was still prone to doing and would feel like she was doing all her life even after she stopped. They liked feeling grown up, mature, wise. That was all.) And then they strolled around taking in the day a little more, and bought a book, and candy.

The clerk called Tonks _sir_ and they felt a swell of pride flow up in them, the wholesome warmth of doing a random act of kindness for someone who didn’t know it was you, the excitement of mastering a new spell you’ve been working on for ages, the glow of a fire as the night wound down and people relaxed sleepily around the common room feeling no need to talk but just basking in each other’s presence. The clerk said _Mr. Tonks_ and Tonks just burst into a grin. They ate the candy, and read the book, and loved it.

Then someone said _he_ and it was like falling in the lake during a jog. (Which had only happened to Tonks a few times and anyway at least not during winter.)

And Tonks hurried back and tried to figure out what had gone wrong.

Madam Pince didn’t like Nymphadora, who wasn’t nearly careful enough with the books (anymore), or Theodore, who was too loud and played too many pranks, or several of the others Tonks had been playing around with over the years. Who she _did_ like was a boisterous but quiet girl, whose actions were loud but whose voice was soft, who treated books reverently and knowledge like it was a precious pet bird who she needed to keep among friends. She wore a sparkly pink hair clip and that was about as far as Tonks got because she had designed the persona entirely to please Madam Pince. (She would be surprised to find, later, that the figure looked and sounded remarkably like Hermione Granger.) Tonks named her Sophia.

It was this face she put on to ask for help, because Madam Pince _loved_ Sophia, and always had a minute to chat about the latest project and give her more resources than she could read in months. This time, though, the librarian only had a handful of books and an apology. Then, after a moment’s thought, a pamphlet. Tonks sent letters back and forth with the address for months before she realized that not only were _boy_ and _girl_ not the only options, they weren’t the only options for _Tonks_ either.

After that, it was a matter of whims. That week she created so many new personas she had to write them all down in a notebook with their skills and flaws, their likes and dislikes, backstories she created for each of them. Sketches of what she wanted, and photographs from her new camera once she was done. (Tonks was _also_ getting remarkably good at transfiguration during all this, because she couldn’t exactly metamorph her clothes, but she absolutely could change them with a few sweeps of her wand, and the more she did it, the more effortless it became. Soon, she barely had to design the outfits anymore, just picture what she wanted, and go.) Most of them she never came back to, but she _could_.

And what she discovered was this:

Miriam was they and they only, and Gentleperson if you had to call them anything.

Amir was they usually but also he sometimes, and Mr. Tonks was fine, but there was no particular flare to it.

Caroline was he exclusively, but went by Ms. which got that rush for Tonks.

Destiny was she, and Ms. Tonks, and daughter, but not _woman_ let alone _girl_.

Raphael was she, too, but a man.

Mike was just a woman with a boys’ name, and Nina was a woman who just liked boys’ hobbies, and Lilah was some sort of drag performer, though Tonks hadn’t decided exactly what kind yet, and was still too nervous to go on stage.

Zara was a man who tended towards pink, who wore robes found in the girls’ section, who liked skirts, and Andrew just had breasts. Tonks didn’t exactly _like_ being called she and Miss as Andrew, but it wasn’t the same sinking feeling in her gut as other times.

Carlisle was they, but in such a way that when people used he or she instead Tonks felt like they were being dangled from magic-repelling chains at the edge of a volcano, lava slowly creeping up their toes, and they didn’t go out in public that way again, not until years later with a group of people who knew exactly what Tonks needed from them.

Boutros and Priya and Yuri didn’t much care any which way, so these were the faces Tonks practiced the most, the ones she experimented with when she wanted to know whether something would go in her favor or not. They all had stories to them, and many of them developed in detail. There were more that were a little flat – she invented them to circumvent age restrictions, or look more pureblooded for one plot or another, or fade into the background – but even these gained a life of their own when she inhabited them enough.

Tonks liked to tell stories. She liked to tell them to herself and to other people, too, and all her life she’d been trying to tell people that the way people looked was just another story being told, another packet of information being thrown at them, not that they believed her, tending to live in just the one body their whole lives. Getting more respect when she looked like an adult, that they understood, because they’d been children once too, and also probably because some of them had experimented with aging potions, which were only technically illegal.

But Tonks had spent her whole life learning one conversation at a time that if she wanted people to listen she had to be _white_ and that certain clothes with certain bodies put her in danger and that breasts were a convenient distraction from the words coming out of her mouth whether she wanted them to be or not. Some decorations she wore garnered looks of pity for her mutilated face, harsh words, scornful glares. If she had a limb missing, many people outright ignored her, even for a simple stoop as she walked. The _clothes_ even moreso and the difference that made to each of her bodies was disheartening.

So Tonks could be he or she or they or it or anything else they wanted, but people read so much into it that she had never put there that he might as well write the whole story himself, do its best to find the story it wanted to tell. Every new name, every new form was a window into Tonks’s soul, but at the end of the day, they were all just Tonks.

And once Tonks realized that, everything slotted into place.


End file.
